


A Study In Pink-Potter!Lock AU

by PaigeTico



Series: Sherlock-Potter!Lock AU [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeTico/pseuds/PaigeTico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson comes to Hogwarts and meets a highly unusual boy named Sherlock Holmes, they have the adventure of a lifetime upon finding a girl dead upon the floor...</p><p>This is, you may have noticed, based on a story by TheProfuscus who, although they have Wattpad, Quotev, Tumblr, Instagram, Fanfiction.net and AO3, seems to have disappeared from the face of the internet. I have tried in every way to contact them, asking whether or not I can revise and continue their story but as i said...vanished off the face of the internet. If you see somewhere that they don't want their work somewhere other than their own accounts, or if you know how to contact them please tell me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sorting

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Distinction: A Potterlock AU - Will not be finished/updated](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067824) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



John's Point of View

John Watson didn't know how to feel as he waited in the Great Hall with the other eleventh years, waiting to be sorted. The tattered Sorting Hat had just sung its song of the four houses. However cliché it might seem, he could definitely feel his heart drumming out a staccato rhythm in his chest and attempting to wedge itself in his throat. It seemed as if any time he might wake up to a shrill 6 am alarm and find himself in bed, in his room, but the sting on his still-tender cheek and the ache in his back told him otherwise.

As far as he could tell from the gossip going around and what he had understood of the song the Hat had sung (which was slightly incoherent, probably due to age), the houses were Gryffindor, for the reckless and stupid, Slytherin, for the evil, Ravenclaw, for the nerds and Hufflepuff for the wimps and half-wits. John was sure that he'd get in Hufflepuff. Either that or he wouldn't be sorted at all. After all, no one in his family was a freak, like him. Maybe he'd get sent back on the train. At that moment he couldn't decide which would be more humiliating. The Muggle-born didn't feel inclined in any way to join in with the conversation of which house they'd get sorted in, but said all the same, 'I bet I'll end up in Hufflepuff, 'cause I'm useless at everything,' No one heard.

That was another downside of going to Hogwarts. No one would talk to him and they'd probably look down on him being a Muggle-born. 

No one had heard, that is, except for the boy behind him in the line. He was tall and thin, with dark, curly hair framing a thin face with high cheekbones and icy blue eyes. The boy said, 'I think you'll find that you're wrong. Hufflepuff is not for the useless; it is the house for the loyal and honest. Likewise, Gryffindor may be full of reckless people but it is the house of bravery and chivalry. Ravenclaw is for the clever; that's where I'm headed. Slytherin, although it has a reputation for Dark Wizards, is really the ambitious and cunning house. And besides,' he paused , then continued.' the Hat sorts you based on what you value the most, not what qualities you exhibit, so you'll be able to choose. How do you suppose Gilderoy Lockhart got into Ravenclaw?'

John nodded, and said,' Good to meet you, I'm John Watson.' He felt reassured at the thought that he would be able to choose.

'The name is Sherlock Holmes.'

The Hall fell silent abruptly as the first student, a girl name Irene Adler, stepped forwards and put the hat on. No sooner had it touched her head had it yelled, 'SLYTHERIN!' The green corner of the hall erupted in cheers as she cast off the hat and walked towards the Slytherin table. She was welcomed by a slightly pudgy prefect who looked vaguely familiar. Next, the Deputy Headmistress called out, 'Anderson, Phillip!' An unremarkable-looking boy walked up and pulled the hat over his head. After a few moments, the Sorting Hat's mouth opened wide and shouted, 'HUFFLEPUFF!' The other students were sorted like this. Sometimes the Hat took its' time in choosing, sometimes it immediately shouted a house. 

 

When it was Sherlock's turn to be sorted, he sauntered up to the Hat looking indifferent, bored even. The Hat shouted, 'RAVENCLAW!' before, it seemed, it had even touched his head. He shot a knowing smirk at John and walked off to the crowd. The pudgy Slytherin prefect looked...well, not irritated exactly. Slightly exasperated, also a little disappointed.

Student after student was sorted. Mary Morstan also became a Slytherin, as did a dark-skinned girl with a space-head called Sally Donovan and a mysterious pale boy named Charles Magnussen. Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson and Molly Hooper joined the Gryffindors.

 

When it came to his turn, John noticed that there was something about the boy Jim Moriarty, apart from his odd name. Perhaps it was the light behind his eyes-or rather, lack of. Something about them was dead and cold, and everyone parted around him as he walked towards the hat. He didn't seem to notice. The Hat pondered for a long time, and people began to exchange uncomfortable glances and mutters. What was there to think about? Obviously he was a Slytherin. But then John remembered what Sherlock had said-Slytherin was not a house of evil wizards, it was for the ambitious and cunning.   
The Hat was actually debating between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Smarts, yes, lots of it. But it wasn't what he valued the most. Something was definitely different about James Moriarty, but the Sorting Hat's duty was to, well, sort, not judge whether or not someone was normal or not. So that's what it did. There was definitely ambition-Moriarty would do anything to get something he wanted. But he lacked the sense of self-preservation inherent to most Slytherins-if this boy was on the brink of death, he wouldn't care. But in the end it bellowed, perhaps more quietly than usual, people would say many years after Moriarty had left Hogwarts, 'SLYTHERIN!' 

 

After most of the students, it was John's turn. He felt queasy as he pulled the hat onto his head. He heard a small voice in his head.

'Bravery and chivalry, certainly. But also loyalty, and you're definitely one who follows rules. Perhaps Hufflepuff, then.' No! thought John. Definitely not Hufflepuff! Please!

'Nothing wrong with the house of the badger, you know. If you're really sure about that, though, then I suppose it had better be GRYFFINDOR!'

The last word was shouted for the whole Great Hall to hear. Relieved, John gingerly took off the Hat and walked towards the Gryffindor table, and collapsed on the bench. Sorted after him was Rose Weasley, the child of the famous Ron and Hermione Weasley. Albus Potter had joined his brother James in Gryffindor-there had been much gossip about whether he'd end up in Gryffindor like the rest of his family before him.

At this point he was starving. The Headmaster said a few words, then suddenly food appeared on golden plates in front of him. Everyone dug in.

John already loved this place.


	2. The Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start to become friends after a lengthly deduction about John by Sherlock.

The next morning, John awoke at six AM exactly out of habit. He could only just barely remember following the rest of the Gryffindors through the portrait of the Fat Lady, which had swung open when a prefect had said the password 'Caecus'. He'd clambered up a spiral staircase into a room with five four-poster beds that he shared with Greg Lestrade and three others and crashed onto the one with his trunk underneath.

John stayed in bed for a long time, enjoying the fact that he could finally wake up as he pleased without his parents nagging him to get up. After lying in and dozing off several times for more than an hour, he got up. He pulled his trunk open and saw, amongst his perfectly folded clothes, a scarf with red and gold stripes and a tie in the same coloring. He also saw that his once-plain robes now had red and gold linings and a Gryffindor crest. John got dressed and headed down to the Great Hall, only to find it almost completely empty. He waved when he saw Sherlock sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table, pointing his wand at a piece of parchment and John joined him.

'You do realize that breakfast does not begin until nine AM? It is barely seven,' said Sherlock, making the parchment shred itself and repair itself again

'What are you doing here, then?' John shot back.

Sherlock did not reply to this. The parchment turned bright pink.

They sat in silence for a long time, and about a dozen more people came in and began to eat. They were holding broomsticks, so obviously they had gotten up to practice Quidditch, despite the tryouts not having happened yet.

'Are you going to try out for Quidditch? I think I might,' said John.

'Quidditch is boring,' replied Sherlock, now making the parchment go up in bright blue flames.

 

'You just aren't good at it! '

Sherlock sighed. 'As a pure-blooded wizard, my family has deemed it necessary for me to be educated in all aspects of the wizarding world, including Quidditch. I just don't like it.'

 

'Yeah, right. That's what everyone says,' snorted John, triumphant that he had proven that Sherlock Holmes was not, in fact, perfect with his parchment that changed colors and burst into flame. John pulled out a textbook called A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot and moved over to the Gryffindor table to read. It was quite interesting at first but rapidly became dull.

 

By the time John had closed the book, breakfast had appeared on the table and he started to eat eagerly. Timetables were being handed out and John saw that he had Charms first. 

 

A hail of owls suddenly swooped in, many carrying packages or letters. John didn't get one-not that he expected to. 

Suddenly Sherlock's voice came from next to him. 'Family problems?'

John jumped. 'When did you get here?!'

Sherlock ignored this. He simply repeated, 'Family problems?'

'What-I-how did you know?'

'Your behavior. You were looking at the owls, looking for something you knew you wouldn't find. You walk with your back hollowed, meaning it is bruised and on your face, there is a bruise that looks about two months old.'

John winced. He'd hoped that the bruise wasn't visible anymore.

Sherlock continued, 'Although your back hurts, you hold your neck straight. That and your haircut indicate a strict, military upbringing-perhaps one or more of your parents is ex-military. Your older sister punched you and you fell over and hit your back on something, because she thought you were a freak. Possibly she was jealous.'

'H-how did you know it was my older sister?'

'One or more of parents being military means they would be used to living in bare accommodations, so it's unlikely they would have a cabinet or large wardrobe like the one you hit your back on in the living room, which means it was in a bedroom. Parents and younger siblings generally are excited and proud to have someone magical in the family, so older sibling. Usually it is girls that have large wardrobes, therefore it was your sister. Judging from the place where your back is bruised you could have hit it on either the edge of a cabinet, the handle of a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe or the curb. Probably not the latter because it would be far too easy for others to see out in the open your sister hitting you. It is likely that you went into her room in order to borrow or return something and she told you to get out, with some...ah...gentle encouragement.'

John's mouth was hanging open. 'That is brilliant!'

There was an odd expression on Sherlock's face as he sighed quietly, 'That's not what people usually say,'

'What do they usually say?'

'Piss off!'

John grinned uncertainly as they got up to go to Charms. Sherlock was certainly a highly unusual person.

In lessons that day, Sherlock did everything flawlessly and perfectly on the first try, shocking teachers who assured them that no one would be able to do the spells described during that lesson. However, John knew that Sherlock was bad at Quidditch, and that made him feel slightly better.


	3. The Tryouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries out for the position of Keeper on the Quidditch team.

Having escaped the paparazzi, Harry Potter sat down next to Neville outside the greenhouses. It was good to be back in Hogwarts, the place of so many memories.  
'How're Albus and James doing in school? Has James done anything serious yet?' asked Harry.  
'Oh, no, they're both excellent students. James is a real laugh.' Neville replied.  
'What's wrong? You seem...worried,'  
Neville sighed. 'It's those two first-year boys. One each in Ravenclaw and Slytherin. They get perfect marks in everything on their first try and hardly ever talk to others. It's like they exude an aura of...darkness. They creep me out,'  
Harry shuddered. He remembered another boy who had been a prefect and Head Boy, loved by all the teachers save Dumbledore. A handsome, dark-haired orphan with hollowed cheeks, who had come to Hogwarts more than seventy years ago now. Tom Marvolo Riddle. So naturally he mistrusted the two students whom Neville spoke of.  
'Are they brothers?' asked Harry. He knew siblings didn't always get into the same house.

 

'Oh, no. Definitely not. One's Scottish and the other talks like the Muggle Royal Family-not that I've heard him talk all that much. Sometimes I see them staring each other down in the hallways, like they're enemies,'  
'Well, I hope they don't start the next Great Wizarding War,' murmured Harry.  
❆ ❆ ❆

'He creeps me out,'

'I heard that he's a Legilimens!’

'I bet he'll be the next Dark Lord!'

Rumors were flying like wildfire about Sherlock and Moriarty, and the scariest thing was that John couldn't discern between which rumours were about who. 

He mentioned this to Sherlock on the day that Gryffindor was holding Quidditch trials, but he didn't seem to care and brushed it off in a cavalier manner. Perhaps he was jealous that John could play Quidditch well. He'd had flying lessons and wasn't half bad, especially after practicing once all his homework had been finished and he planned to try out for the position of Keeper. Sherlock went in the direction of Ravenclaw Tower and John walked down into the grounds. He didn't even wish me good luck! thought John indignantly but continued on to the broom cupboard and picked up an ancient Cleansweep Eleven. They had been considered excellent everyday family brooms roughly two decades ago.

He followed a stream of students to the stands and watched the trials for the other positions save the Seeker, which was usually done last, if at all. The crowd variably cheered or heckled people aspiring to be on the Gryffindor team. When it was his turn, he mounted his broom and kicked off, settling around the goal hoops and circling them.

The Chasers threw their best penalty shots at John, and he saved four of them, only narrowly missing the second to last. His heart sank. The person before him had saved all five goals.

Gently he landed and, forlorn, watched the rest of the trials.

When it had all finished the team Captain cornered him. 

'Congrats, Gryffindor Keeper,'

'What?' spluttered John in surprise. 'I only saved four!'

'The guy before you, his last two saves were lucky and he keeps acting like he meant to fall off his broom and smack the ball across the pitch with his legs. Plus, he's got a really bad attitude.' She paused. 'Practice at seven in the morning on Wednesday, okay?'

John nodded. 'I don't envy you, having to go and tell the guy before me he'd not Keeper!'

John found Sherlock in the Gryffindor common room, his blue and bronze uniform standing out amongst the Gryffindors. Although it was packed, there was a circle of empty space around Sherlock. 'What are you doing here?' hissed John. 'How did you get past the Fat Lady?'

'I told her the password,' said Sherlock, not looking up from the book he was holding. 'Congrats on Keeper, by the way,'  
John supposed it was useless asking how he knew that he'd gotten on the team, or how he knew the password. 

Sherlock got up and the crowd parted around him as he exited the common room. John would get a nasty surprise, Sherlock knew, come the second match of the year.

But why, John wondered, had Sherlock been in John's common room? 

Had he been there just to wait for him to come back?


	4. The Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plays in his first Quidditch match ever.

As always, the school was abuzz with excitement at the beginning of November, when the first Quidditch match of the year, Slytherin versus Gryffindor, came along. John suspected that these two houses played each other first in the year because they had the fiercest rivalry between each other and the wizard or wizards who had determined the order of matches played wanted to have it done and over with early on in the year. Team players traveled in packs with other students to avoid being ambushed by the other house. Sixth and seventh year students taking NEWT's in advanced Transfiguration or Charms were being paid to curse team players with complex hexes and jinxes that took someone with more knowledge of the Dark Arts than the matron in the hospital wing to undo. The teams trained harder than ever and competed for use of the pitch. Even teachers weren't afraid to take sides and give players less homework so they'd have more time for practice-John was extremely thankful for this.

 

On the day itself, nerves and tempers were high-strung. Sherlock told John at breakfast that it would be easier to steer his broom if he didn't hollow his back so much. In response to this, John snapped, 'I know that! Can't you shut up for once?!

Sherlock didn't say anything to this.

John stalked off to the changing rooms after trying, and failing, to choke down breakfast. He regretted snapping at Sherlock, knowing that his support was really helpful. He barely noticed the unusually good weather for November.

Up in the air when the game had started, however, he forgot all the butterflies that had been there during the Captain's pep talk. He'd let his hair grow out slightly and enjoyed the feeling of the wind whipping it round his face. He circled the goalposts and watched the game unfold.

He remembered what Sherlock had said about not hollowing his back. John tried this and immediately found it much easier to steer. Although his back was stiff and hurt, it made flying significantly easier. Sherlock was right and John valued his friendship, he admitted grudgingly.

 

A Slytherin Chaser was speeding towards him and attempted to score; John caught the Quaffle by the tips of his fingers and tossed it to a Chaser hovering nearby. He gave John a thumbs up.

The Gryffindor Chasers were superb. They scored goal after goal and got more and more points. However, the Slytherins weren't bad either and John missed a few goals.

 

Eventually it seemed that the match would never end. Goals were scored and missed by both teams, and neither hide nor hair of the Snitch had been seen. The clear weather had become cloudy and soon it started to rain heavily. No one could see anyone or anything else, and John tried not to move for fear of crashing into the goalposts behind him, but at the same time tried to not let the wind blow him away. Even the shouting of the crown could not be heard over the howling of the storm and only when lightning split the air could you make anything out. The match dragged on. 

John squinted at his wristwatch and decided it was nearly lunchtime-surely they stopped playing for that? He battled a direct headwind to land on the pitch and realized that everyone else was already on the ground and no one had bothered to tell him, which made him slightly miffed. It seemed that the Slytherin Seeker had caught the Snitch as soon as he'd caught sight of it but Gryffindor had scored so many goals that they had won. However, no one on the Slytherin team was complaining, because God knew when the Snitch would have been in the line of sight of a Seeker again and the match could have stretched on for weeks (that had indeed happened before).

Everyone rushed into cover as another wave of rain crashed down upon them. Exhausted, soaking wet but still victorious, the team trooped into the Hall to find that lunch had indeed started without them. Almost no one had stayed to watch the rest of the match, and so much anticipated the results.

'GRYFFINDOR!!!' The shout was quiet at first but grew into a roar, chanted over and over again. ‘GRYFFINDOR!!!' 

Almost no one was sitting at their original house table-rather, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were all jumbled up (it had become a Hogwarts tradition long ago for students of the winning team and the two other houses to sit together at the meal following a Quidditch match). Only Slytherin remained at their table. Sherlock was reading the Daily Prophet on the Gryffindor table. The excitement of the match meant that many had not bothered to check the newspapers in the morning.

'What do you think of these suicides, then?' asked Sherlock, not looking up as John sat down.

John sighed inwardly. Typical Sherlock, wanting to discuss suicides right after a Quidditch match had been won. Nonetheless, he peered over Sherlock's shoulder and read the Prophet.

Apparently, over the past few months three people had been found dead in places they had no reason to be, holding empty bottles of a lethal poison. Suicide apparently, but the author of the article had made it look as if the deaths had been murders or something. However, no correlation between the three people had been found at all.

It seemed Sherlock agreed with the authors. This, John thought, was utterly and absolutely preposterous. 'What do you think you, a first-year student confined to school, are going to do? Prove that the deaths are actually murders and catch the serial killer?!' he snorted.

 

Sherlock shrugged. 'Says who that I can't?'


	5. The Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl's body is discovered on the floor, and Sherlock and John go to investigate.

On another rainy weekend, John was bent over a History of Magic essay that Sherlock refused to write for him. The thunder outside the library where they sat was not very loud and was mostly drowned out by the noise made by the steady torrent of rain hitting the ground. All of a sudden, however, there was a high-pitched scream and a few moments later, the voice of the Deputy Headmistress rang out as if magnified by a megaphone. ''All students, please keep calm and return to their common rooms. A student has been found dead.'  
        Instantly Sherlock shot up from his seat and scurried away. John followed. He was surprised, though, when Sherlock turned the wrong way and continued running. John yelled after him, 'That's the way to the other classrooms! Where are you going?!'   
        'How else are we going to have a look at the body?'  
        'Are you mad?! How do you know where it is?'  
        'Trust me! We don't have long!'  
        John struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. Finally, he turned a corner and stopped.  
        'The scream was that of a female, and on the weekend no one would be wandering about with nothing to do. It sounded to be not far from here, so that rules out the possibility of her going to the Owlery to send a letter and anyways, what kind of person must you be to send an owl out in this weather? The Hufflepuff common room is near here, so she must have left the common room to go to the toilet,. A teacher came not long after she screamed, so it was the girls toilet one corridor away from the staff room...which is here,' Sherlock rattled off.  
        Sherlock raised a finger to tell John to be quiet and they snuck around a corner to find a girl lying on the floor, face down, her wand still in hand. Evidently, upon hearing the announcement the teachers first priority was keeping the students safe and they had left to herd them towards the common rooms, giving the two of them a few minutes before someone came looking. Sherlock pulled on a pair of latex gloves he had produced from nowhere and bent down to examine the girl.

 

SHERLOCK’S POINT OF VIEW

        Sherlock wiped his hand on her clothes. Her robes were damp, as was the outside of her Hufflepuff scarf. However, the umbrella inside her pocket was dry, presumably because it had been too windy to use it. Under her robes, every single article of clothing she wore was an alarming shade of eye-watering pink. She had on quite a lot of jewellery that was clean and shiny, apart from a ring on her finger that was dirty and scratched. Pulling it off, Sherlock saw that is was polished and clean on the inside.

        ‘Her robes and scarf are wet, so she was outside in the rain for some reason. She was in an unhappy relationship because all her jewellery is clean except for her ring, which we can assume is a promise ring because it is on her fourth finger. Family and friendship rings are generally worn on the index finger. She was cheating on her significant other secretly, for a long time, which can be seen from the fact that the inside of her ring is clean, because the only cleaning it gets is when she works it off her finger. She wouldn’t maintain the fiction of being single for a single lover, so she’s had a string of them. Her wand was in her left hand, so we can assume that is her dominant hand,’ Sherlock paused to examine the magically made scratches on the floor. They spelled out ‘RACHE’, which was German for ‘revenge’. He immediately dismissed this thought and decided she had been attempting to magically scratch the name ‘RACHEL’ into the floor before she had died. In her right hand was clutched an empty bottle, like the suicides described in the newspaper several weeks ago. It still had the dregs of whatever it used to hold. The poison that had killed her, perhaps. Sherlock dabbed the inside of the bottle with a cotton bud and stood up.  
         
         'But what about the trunk? Where is it?' he muttered.

        Hearing footsteps, he briskly strode back to Ravenclaw Tower, not waiting to see where John had gotten to. The common room was far too crowded with people speculating about who had died and whether or not it had been an accident, so he settled in the dormitory and pulled out his potions kit.   
          
        'Incendio,' he murmured, lighting a fire under his cauldron and starting to analyse the potion from the bottle.

        It seemed to be a little-known poison that was actually not too difficult to brew-the reason it was so rare was because it required many ingredients that were Class A Non-Tradeable Materials like Erumpent Exploding Fluid and items with not necessarily magical but sacred qualities, such as leaves from a certain plant that had been watered with human blood, or rust from a blade that had killed thirteen innocent people.

        While he added pinches of powdered ingredients, adjusted the intensity of the fire and stirred his cauldron, Sherlock kept thinking about something in the back of his mind. The splash marks of mud on her legs indicated she had been dragging her school trunk behind her as there was no other logical way for those to be there, but what had happened to it? Her hair was a complete mess and if the girl had put the trunk back in her dormitory, she would also have had time to fix her hair. Her expensive looking (muggle) name-brand pink clothes indicated she was not the type of person who would go around with a messy hairstyle, as well as telling Sherlock that she was probably Muggleborn or half-blood. She seemed to be very rich, which meant that she probably also had a mobile phone of some sort. Useless, of course, in Hogwarts, with all the magic in the air, but she had been scratching a message into the floor with magic, and Hogwarts was enchanted with anti-graffiti spells, so it was entirely possible that she was an advanced Charms student who could also conjure a magic-deadening field in which Muggle artefacts such as phones could be used.  
   
        Why had the girl been holding her trunk in the first place, anyways, and where was her phone? And why was she writing 'RACHEL'? Who was Rachel?


	6. The Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is cornered and taken to an empty room, where a prefect talks with him on a very odd subject indeed.

John was slightly pissed at Sherlock for running off without him, so he barely noticed where he was walking. A girl about the same age as him walked up to him.   
'Come with me,' she said sweetly.  
John was confused. Was he supposed to know her? Unsure of what to do, he stuttered, 'I...um...sorry, I think you're thinking of the wrong person...?' He trailed off and continued walking. However, he heard a male voice from nearby.  
'There is a suit of armor to your left,'  
John frowned. 'Who's this? Who's speaking?'  
'Do you see the suit of armor, Watson?'  
He turned to his left and saw it.  
'Yeah, I see it,'  
'Watch,'  
To John's very great surprise, the suit of armor turned its head to face him, with a resonating creeeaaaaak.   
The voice continued. 'There is another suit of armor across this corridor,'   
John grunted and saw that it was facing him as well, but when he turned to face it it straightened its head.  
'And finally, behind you to the right,'  
He looked round at it and it promptly returned its head to its original position.  
'How are you doing this?' he asked incredulously.   
'Follow the girl, Watson,'  
The girl was still smiling at him.  
'I would make some sort of threat,' said the voice, 'but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you,'  
John decided there wasn't much else he could do and followed the girl.  
'Hello,' he said as he walked.  
'Hi,'  
'What’s your name, then?'  
'Er ... Anthea,'  
'Is that your real name?'  
'No,'   
'I’m John,'  
'Yes. I know'  
'Any point in asking where I’m going?' he said hopefully.  
'None at all...' She smiled at him briefly. '...John,'   
'Okay,' feeling that things were not okay at all.  
They ended up in an empty classroom. The vaguely familiar Slytherin prefect he had seen on the first day of school was leaning on an umbrella. There was a straight-backed, armless chair next to him. 'Have a seat, John,' he said, gesturing towards the chair.  
John didn't have a seat.  
'You know, you could just corner me after a lesson or something. I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just...find me,' John trailed off.  
The prefect said, 'When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place,'  
His voice became more serious. 'Your back must be hurting you. Sit down,'  
John thought he had made it very clear that he did not wish to, but all the same replied, 'I don't want to sit down,'  
The prefect looked at him curiously. 'You don't seem very afraid,'  
'You don't seem very frightening,'   
The prefect chuckled, which made John strangely infuriated. 'Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?'  
John did not answer this.  
The prefect continued, sternly now. 'What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?'  
John looked away. 'I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him...' John realized that it had not been long at all since the start of term. '...a few weeks ago,'  
'Mmm, and since then you spend all your time with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?'  
John was starting to get irritated. 'Who are you?'  
'An interested party,'   
'Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.'  
'You’ve met him. How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,'  
'And what's that?' asked John skeptically.  
'An enemy,'  
'An enemy?' repeated John, taken aback.  
'In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic,'  
John looked around the unused classroom pointedly. 'Well, thank God you're above that,' he said, laying the sarcasm on thick.  
A fluttering noise made him look up. Sherlock's barn owl was tapping on the window, holding a letter. Immediately he wrenched the window open and untied the letter. It was quite short, and read:  
Ravenclaw Tower.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH   
The prefect's voice broke John's thoughts. ' I hope I’m not distracting you,'  
'Not distracting me at all,'  
Abruptly the prefect said, 'Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?'   
'I could be wrong ... but I think that’s none of your business' he answered smoothly.  
Ominously, the prefect raised his eyebrows and said, 'It could be,'  
John sighed. 'It really couldn't,'  
'If you do plan on continuing to associate with Sherlock Holmes, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way,'  
John found this strangely amusing. 'Why?'  
'Because you're not a wealthy boy,'  
John knew something was up. 'In exchange for what?'  
'Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to,'   
Again, John asked, 'Why?'  
'I worry about him. Constantly,'  
'That's nice of you,' said John, rather insincerely.  
'But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship,'  
The owl had another letter for him. This time it read:  
If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
SH  
In response to the prefects' offer, he said, 'No,'  
'But I haven't mentioned a figure,'  
'Don't bother,'  
The prefect laughed. 'You're very loyal, very quickly,'  
'No, I'm not. I'm just not interested,'  
The prefect took a notebook out from his robes, flipped it open and read out, ''Trust issues', it says here,'  
John was unnerved. 'What's that?'  
Still looking down at the book, the prefect said, 'Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?'  
'Who says I trust him?' snorted John.  
'You don't seem the kind to make friends easily,'  
John ignored this and instead, queried, 'Are we done yet?'  
'You tell me,' said the prefect, looking up at him.  
John turned to walk out the door, when the prefect said, 'I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen'  
John stopped dead in his tracks and gritted his teeth. Slowly, he turned to face him. 'My...what?'  
'Show me,' He gestured to John's left hand.  
John stayed where he was. If whoever this fat prefect was wanted to see his hand, he'd have to come to him.  
This did not, unfortunately, achieve the desired effect. The prefect strolled forwards leisurely and reached for John's hand, which he instinctively drew back. The prefect raised his eyebrows and John reluctantly stretched out his hand. The prefect took it in both hands and muttered, 'Remarkable,'  
John snatched his hand away and asked, 'What is?'  
'Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?'  
'What's wrong with my hand?'  
'You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand, your Muggle therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of an overly strict upbringing,'  
John flinched. This was all true.  
'Who the hell are you? How do you know that?'  
'Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the trials, Watson ... you miss it,' He leaned closer to John. 'Welcome back,' he whispered.   
Sherlock's owl had another letter for him. This time it read,  
Could be dangerous  
SH  
John walked off, into the general direction of Ravenclaw Tower.


	7. The Match, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is very surprised to find that Sherlock, amongst many other things, is brilliant at Quidditch.

It was, once again, time for a much-anticipated Quidditch match-Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff. Everyone was curious to see the team Ravenclaw had put together this year, for they had been training extremely secretively and no one had been allowed to watch their practices. Up until the day of the match no one apart from the team knew who their new Seeker was, and people had placed bets. Ravenclaw won their Quidditch games on brains and trickery, and the students with the highest marks were usually on the team. Despite this, it was a huge surprise to John when Sherlock walked onto the pitch wearing blue Quidditch robes and holding a broomstick.  
‘What?! Why didn’t you tell me you were on the team? Was everyone else trying out for Seeker so bad they had to use you?!’  
‘You’ll see,’ replied Sherlock mysteriously.  
‘Interesting to finally see the team Ravenclaw captain Cara Ronan has put together this year, and it will come as a shock to many that first-year Sherlock Holmes has landed the position of Seeker! Let’s see whether their mystery player is enough for them to win against Hufflepuff’s team of…’  
John stopped listening to the commentator to watch Sherlock. John had been wrong, yet again-Sherlock was brilliant as flying. Even riding an ancient school broom he was superb. As he kicked off he circled higher and higher, riding the wind as one might ride waves when surfing and surveying the skies as an eagle looking for prey might.  
‘Hufflepuff currently in possession of the Quaffle, that’s Chaser Humphrey taking the shot. He shoots...misses,’ said the commentator, as the yellow and black half of the crowd groaned.  
The Chaser had been feinting, but somehow the Ravenclaw Keeper had anticipated this and swerved to the side he was intending to score on, catching the Quaffle and tossing it to a Ravenclaw Chaser. It had actually been Sherlock passing behind the goal yelling ‘TO THE LEFT!’ that had informed the Keeper he was feinting. The rest of the team knew better than to not heed his instructions even though he was not the captain.  
The Chasers of Ravenclaw tried what seemed to be a simple feint, looking like they were scoring from the bottom and at the very last second shooting upwards and scoring from there, but as soon as the Chaser with the Quaffle had pulled his broom up he threw it down to waiting Team Captain and Chaser, who immediately scored from below, seeing that the Keeper had fallen for the ruse and followed the first Chaser upwards.  
Sherlock heard something behind him and sighed in exasperation as he twisted his head round and spotted a distinctive yellow shape behind him. The Hufflepuff Seeker had decided to tail him rather than try to find the Snitch herself. He had to give her credit, though-it wasn’t a bad decision, either, because since first-years weren’t allowed their own brooms Sherlock was riding a school Cleansweep Eleven so the Hufflepuff Seeker had the advantage of a faster and more nimble mount. If Sherlock went after the Snitch, she would get there first.  
So he had to do this on brains alone.  
Sherlock decided to use a variation of the Wronski Feint. He spotted the Snitch speeding across about thirty feet away from him, ten feet or so off the ground. Sherlock pulled into a steep dive, aimed roughly half a meter to the left of where the Snitch would be blown by the wind and sleet when he drew level with it. His opposite number followed suit, thinking that he’d seen the Snitch but not spotting it herself. She shot past him, owing to a better broomstick. Sherlock jerked his broom to the right and up and, reaching out an arm, deftly plucked the Golden Snitch out of the air above him. The Hufflepuff Seeker pulled up, looking confused until she saw the Snitch in Sherlock’s hand. Needless to say, she was not very happy.  
It was a few moments before anyone had realized what had happened. The commentator roared, ‘Well, he does play dirty, doesn’t he?’ One hundred and fifty points to Ravenclaw!’ The crowd was either screaming bloody murder or cheering wildly. Sherlock slid off his broom and was immediately crushed in a hug. Wheezing and gasping for breath, he started walking to the changing rooms.


End file.
